


Waking Up Is Hard To Do

by guiltypleasures21



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27431755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guiltypleasures21/pseuds/guiltypleasures21
Summary: Five times Steve Rogers tries to wake up Tony Stark. Note: This story assumes canon up to the Avengers movie (2012).
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 48





	Waking Up Is Hard To Do

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fic, so I appreciate constructive criticism, and thanks for reading it!

**Number One**

Cap spun around, narrowly dodging a piece of shrapnel, trying to find his team amidst the chaos the mechs were spreading through the streets of DC. This was kind of terrible, and all six of the Avengers had narrowly dodged death several times in the last few minutes, but he had to admit, he was having a better time than he had been in the congressional hearing the mechs had interrupted. He would never get used to politicians—all the lying, all the pandering, all for their own personal gain. Whereas he had become used to battles like this one disturbingly quickly. Adrenaline rushing through his veins, his shield zinging through the air, his team bantering through the comms. It was really kinda nice.

With a rush of much colder adrenaline—he spared half a moment to be surprised there was even more where that had come from—he realized that that last one was missing, or rather, not every voice was represented. He could hear Hulk from here without any sort of microphone, and Widow and Hawkeye were doing their flirting-with-each-other-and-also-death dance, and the static on the line had the distinctive timbre of the electric field Thor emitted while he was fighting. Only Iron Man’s characteristic patter was missing. “Stark? Come in,” he ordered.

A half-minute later, still nothing.

“Has anyone heard from Stark?” Cap asked the team, grunting as he knocked the legs out from another lumbering robot.

“Nope, and no visual either,” Barton responded tersely. Romanov and Thor grunted their agreement, so Cap swung his shield like a Frisbee and used the momentum as it came back to bounce off the next mech’s forehead (Forehead? Lid? Roof? He wasn’t sure, actually) and onto the roof of the nearest building. Catty-cornered from Barton, Steve had some view that the archer didn’t, and he scanned it desperately as he threw his shield. He refused to lose a team member in their very second fight as a team, especially when that team member had nearly died in space at the culmination of their last battle.

Suddenly, Steve picked up a glint of red and gold in the nearby rubble. He took stock: Thor was surrounded, Widow was too far away, and Barton needed to keep shooting the mechs as fast as he could. The rescue would have to be him.

“Cover me!” he yelled to the team, jumping down onto a nearby mech. As it passed the suit, Steve dismounted, yelling to Stark the whole way. “Stark! Wake up! Iron Man!”

As soon as he tried to pop up Stark’s faceplate, though, he heard a gasp over the comms.

“Nope, Cap, hands off the merchandise,” Stark said, obviously in some kind of pain. “If you all need me that badly, I guess I can deign to join in,” and with that, he engaged the repulsors and flew off. Steve leaped towards a nearby mech, frustrated.

“What were you doing, Stark? Were your comms totally off?” he demanded.

“Just needed my beauty sleep, keeps me looking like this,” Stark yelled back dryly (as he punched a robot in the face).

Cap couldn’t help being a bit aggravated. Stark was sleeping on the job—literally—and he had the nerve to crack jokes. He wasn’t beautiful anyway, despite what his arrogance would have him believe. Stark was—magnetic, that much was for sure. He had a sort of wiry grace Steve couldn’t deny, sharp delineations in his body that Steve would have liked to sketch. But he was too raw, too gritty to be conventionally beautiful the way Natasha was, or Peggy had been. Too real.

Steve shook off his flight of fancy and the mech arm that had grabbed him from behind, threw his shield, and focused on the fight.

\-----

After the debrief, Steve stopped by SHIELD Medical. The physician on call let him know that Stark had suffered three broken ribs and a serious concussion that led to the unconsciousness in the field. He was resting and being accompanied by Ms. Potts.

Steve thanked her and turned to go, sorting through the causes for his own anger. He was bothered that Stark hadn’t trusted the team enough to share vital information that could have affected his performance on the battlefield. He was frustrated that he hadn’t been able to protect a member of his team from serious injury. And—and those were all the reasons.

**Number Two**

“Jarvis? Where’s Stark? We need to leave for the meeting with Fury in fifteen minutes and the rest of the team is already in the car,” Steve asked. He hid his discomfort rather well when the AI answered, he thought. He had adjusted to a lot in the twenty-first century, and to even more when Stark had invited all the Avengers to move into the newly christened Avengers Tower for security reasons. But he still sometimes felt like a nigh-omniscient voice from the sky everywhere in his living space felt like a bridge too far. Even if he liked the man—the AI—Jarvis.

“Sir is in the workshop, Captain,” Jarvis replied, sounding rather concerned. “I was aware of your meeting and have been trying to rouse him for some time, unsuccessfully. His vital signs appear normal, however. He simply did not sleep last night and collapsed early this morning. Would you mind attempting to rouse him?” Steve grimaced and nodded; he’d already been heading in that direction.

As Jarvis opened the glass door to the workshop, Steve paused for a moment in confusion. Tony was facedown on his workspace, sprawled in front of the pieces of… a child’s bike? He had stayed up for over twenty-four hours following yet another battle—their tenth? Eleventh? Steve was losing count—to mend a small bicycle? Did they have some different cultural significance in the 2010’s?

Then Steve recognized the shade of lime green and the keychains hanging from the handlebars. He remembered watching a sobbing little girl dart out from her mother’s arms where they had been huddled in front of a restaurant during yesterday’s battle. She had been trying to save this bike from the oncoming horde of time-traveling whatevers they’d been fighting before it got crushed. Iron Man had swooped in front of her just in time, returning her to her mother but missing the bike.

Apparently at some point between medical and debriefing and the inevitable adrenaline comedown following every battle, Stark had found time to send someone to recover the bike. By the looks of the post-it note stuck to the counter, they had also apparently been able to find the child’s name and address. And Stark had stayed up all night to try to get this bike back to Olivia Jensen, a spitfire little blond who had suffered through way more than an elementary schooler should have to.

Steve’s mouth twisted up at the corner. Genius? Billionaire? Playboy? Undeniably. Philanthropist? He had always assumed that last bit was Pepper’s influence. But he could see it now.

Jarvis coughed politely, and Steve remembered why he was there. Blushing, he went over to shake Tony. And shake Tony. And finally pour a nearby glass of water on Tony’s head, who sat up, spluttering.

“Wasn’t asleep! Was working! I’m awake!”

Steve shook his head.

**Number Three**

Steve came back from his morning run with his stomach rumbling and headed directly to the communal kitchen. He couldn’t help laughing at the scene he found there—Natasha, sitting delicately in full armor in front of a bowl of fruit and a beautiful china cup of tea; Bruce with a newspaper and a battered cup of coffee; Clint shoveling a pile of whipped-cream-laden Eggos into his mouth with his fingers while reading some kind of fantasy novel; and Tony face-first in a bowl of Coco Puffs that appeared to be congealing into his beard.

Nat raised an eyebrow at him as he grabbed a banana and leaned against the countertop. “Why did no one help him? At least move his head out of the bowl?” Steve asked, amused.

“We figured if he started actually drowning in the milk we might get involved,” Clint replied.

“Would you really want to risk the wrath of waking Tony?” Bruce asked drolly.

“Fair point,” Steve said begrudgingly, “yet I appear to always be the one who has to do it,” and Natasha gave him a winning smile.

“Fine,” he said, and he tapped Tony gently on the shoulder. He hadn’t anticipated Tony to try to turn to glare in his direction but overbalance, nearly falling out of his chair if Steve hadn’t dropped to his knees to get in the way before he hit the floor. So now Captain America’s lightning-fast reflexes to help a friend ended him up on the floor, covered in the Coco Puff-scented milk, with said friend slung over his shoulder nearly fireman-style and all their roommates laughing at him.

Tony was a son of a gun.

“Not a word,” Steve said to the rest of the team, and he carried Tony towards his rooms. He tried to talk to Tony, to wake him up if possible, but Tony only responded by wrapping his arms around Steve, which shoved Tony’s derriere nearly into Steve’s face.

Tony really was a son of gun. Who smelled really good, like engine grease and sweat and balsam. And Coco Puffs.

But Steve was a big boy, and he could handle it, it not being much of anything at all anyway. This affection wasn’t meant for him, because Tony was asleep. Tony’s behind was certainly not Steve’s concern. So Steve would just.. gently deposit Tony into his bed, and.. And be thwarted when Tony absolutely would not let go of him. Darn it.

“Tony, wake up,” Steve said firmly. “You have to let me go so you can back to sleep, or not, I don’t care, but I can’t stay here,” but it was fruitless. Finally Steve manually detached Tony’s grasping fingers and headed towards the door.

If it hadn’t been for his super soldier hearing, he wouldn’t have heard Tony mutter, “Such a tease, Rogers. If you put me in my bed you better get in it with me,” and he absolutely did not know how to respond to that, so he just kept going out the door.

He must have looked like a ghost when he returned to the kitchen to grab his abandoned banana. Only Natasha remained, with her nearly empty cup of tea.

She carefully didn’t look at him when she got up to wash it, but he knew she was talking to him when she spoke. “He broke up with Pepper just after we moved in here, you know,” she said carefully. “It’s been months. He’s allowed to move on,” and when Steve’s chest tightened, she added, “and so are you.”

Steve didn’t know what to say to that either. He knew what he wanted, but… he didn’t see any way where he could get it.

**Number Four**

Steve padded softly through the halls after his late-night punching bag session, enjoying the feeling of soap-fresh skin and damp hair after serious exertion. The tower was quiet, and while Steve knew he wasn’t the only insomniac who lived there, he needed the least sleep of any of them to function optimally. He stopped by the deserted communal kitchen, hungry to replenish some calories, and made himself a smoothie. He’d been spending a lot more time visiting Tony in the workshop lately, trying not to quietly pine, and the bots were good hosts, always trying to share the wealth of Tony’s blender cups. They were a thoroughly modern food, but Steve had begun to see the appeal.

After some warm milk to wash the smoothie down with nostalgia, Steve finally began to feel his eyelids get heavier. He yawned, stretched, and headed back to his apartment, pulling off his shirt as he went through the bedroom door. So he was nearly in his bed before he realized that it was already occupied, and he was suddenly more awake than he had ever been in his life.

He tried to calm himself down. Not an enemy, never an enemy; those black curls belonged to a teammate, and a very close friend. But battle-readiness sublimated into anger. What was Tony thinking? This was Steve’s darn bed, and he couldn’t very sleep in it now, and while he could crash on the couch (his own couch), Steve refused to have the sort of dirty dreams that would unquestionably follow seeing Tony in his bed while Tony was sleeping in the same apartment.

But he was so incredibly done with constantly waking up Rip Van Winkle here all the time. So perhaps he was less gentle than he should have been when he nudged Tony. “Darn it, Tony, wake up, and get out of my bed.”

Tony’s answering smile was wide, sleepy, and very self-satisfied. “Steve! You’re back. Miss me?”

Steve spluttered, which he never did. “This is _my_ bed, Tony! I did not expect to find you in it!”

But Tony was totally unashamed when he responded, “Yeah, but what was I supposed to do when I couldn’t get you in mine?”

Steve blinked at him, and Tony appeared to lose his bravado. A moment passed, then two, while Steve’s brain completely rebooted.

“Unless I read this wrong, in which case we can never speak again, I’m just going to go be somewhere else,” he said, and he started to disentangle himself from Steve’s flannel sheets with increasing urgency. “Just going to go—” but Steve stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, and he waited for half a breath—a split second—the longest eon of his life—for Tony to look at him and confirm what Steve thought he just heard—before their lips were meeting.

Their bodies were crashing together, and Tony had sleep breath and his goatee was scratchy and he was still tangled in the sheets and it was the best thing that had ever happened to Steven Rogers. Tony made a smart remark about balancing things out and suddenly he wasn’t wearing a shirt either. It sure was a good thing they were already in bed, because things were progressing too quickly for them to have gone anywhere else before they also misplaced their pants. It was a rush of hands and lips and heartbeats and it was more, wow, more, and they lost themselves in each other for the rest of the night.

**Number Five**

Steve wakes up, and he knows who he will find sprawled across his bed like a starfish before he even opens his eyes. No matter how long they do this, that surety will always be his favorite part. The privilege of being open about who he loves, of that person being open back, spending time with him unabashedly, falling asleep with him (sometimes) and always waking up in his arms. It is bliss.

He turns to watch Tony, admiring the soft black curls of his hair against the soft white cotton of Steve’s pillowcase, and he realizes that he was wrong so many months ago. Tony is, in fact, beautiful. Perhaps it isn’t conventional, but the way his features settle when he’s at peace, the way his fingers gently reach across Steve’s own chest, it’s undeniable. When this man is awake, he’s all bluster and huge personality and he shares it with the world. But when he’s asleep? This serenity is just for Steve, and that only magnifies how beautiful it is.

In fact, since Steve doesn’t have to share this moment, he’s going to be selfish and stretch it out a little bit longer. They don’t have anywhere to be today, so for once he won’t wake Tony up. This time, he gets to curl his body around the smaller, darker, scarred, beloved man in his bed, and just revel in the contentment that he feels to let Tony rest.

After all, it takes a forklift to properly wake this man up anyway.


End file.
